I am terrified that the moment that you see my body for the first time, you will discover all the warzones sprawled across my body. You will find the places where battles were won, but in the absolute worst way. The truth is that you can never really lose when you're fighting yourself. I know everyone has experienced what it's like to face off in a battle against oneself. But the only difference is how we do the fighting. I am sorry that I fight with sharp edges instead of the constructive methods that you would choose. Maybe all along, I have wanted to destroy pieces of my own body to prove that I can still survive. It's a scary thing when I get that way. I stop caring about what it's like to live because somehow the pain gives me an idea of what its like to die a little inside, and I find that feeling somewhat addictive. Sometimes I don't want to stop being sad because it makes me feel so much. I am scared for you to step on my war grounds. What if you get shot?
It is absolutely terrifying how some people can so easily just turn off their emotions, like a switch. How can someone love you so much until you suddenly don't love them back? Love should never be about being loved back. It's about finding something within someone that you haven't found in anyone else. I loved him for almost two years, and he didn't love me back for most of that time. And when I finally didn't love him back, he turned into the kind of monster I was always afraid of. He went back to that emotionless state, that make me want to crawl inside my skin. Love isn't supposed to be like this. I loved him, and I know that what he was feeling wasn't love at all. It was something much uglier.
Stop calling yourself a writer, when all you write is love poems. Write about life, adventure, anger. Write about anything other than the hole you feel thinking about finding love in him. Explore your opportunities and make your words run deep. Anyone can write how they feel when they're in love, but it takes a real writer to actually write the chapters of the rest of their life. Don't sell yourself short by only writing about boys. Writers are born, they're not created in moments of bliss. Come on. Stop saying you're a writer when it's clear that you only want to fill the pages of your notebook to feel important. You were never destined to write; you stole that dream from me when you saw that I was good at it.
I have no idea what to do. I feel like crying every time that I sit down for more than two minutes. I start thinking of the past and how miserable my present still is. They say that we can control our situations, but I feel like that least powerful person I know. I want to be happy. I am happy, most of the time. Sometimes I just sit back and realize how much I miss the simplicity of it all. I miss having witty conversations until 3 am. Now I go to bed at 9 o'clock without telling anyone goodnight. I constantly feel drained. It's a lot of work being perfect when you're not really perfect at all. I just want to see everyone I care about be happy because they are just as important as me. I think the reason I am hurting so much is because I already have my own sadness, and I don't like to see others have it too. I would trade my good days for my friends. They seem to need them more than me right now.
I can hardly breathe, and I feel like my heart has stopped dead in my chest. I feel empty. Ever since you came back, I don't feel the way I had hoped to feel. I thought you were what I wanted, but I guess that wasn't what I wanted at all. I think I only wanted the satisfaction of hearing you say sorry and tell me that you regretted everything. Hearing those words weren't nearly as satisfying as I had expected. I wanted you to feel broken and hurt, but I was the only one feeling pain. I waited months for a text that didn't mean anything. I don't understand it. I don't want you as part of my life, but I don't like it when you're missing. Too much time and too many mistakes separates us from the people we were. I wish we could find those people again.
I hope she rips you to pieces and leaves you lying on the floor, clutching your chest, struggling to breathe at 3 am because you feel like your heart has been ripped out of your chest. I hope you're alone and angry and desperate. I hope you suffer in every way I did when you cut me out of your life. It was never fair to me, and you knew it. She turned you into a monster, and I hated her for it. But now, I'm starting to see that you let her. You let her ruin my life without hesitation. I hate you for that. And now I hope you come crawling back. I hope you're miserable so that I can show you how it feels to be the one who is begging for forgiveness. I was never sorry for the things I said. I would rather burn alive than apologize to either one of you for what I said. I hope she ruins your life. I can't wait for the day. I can't wait to see you breathless.
Writing is the type of medicine that can mend a broken soul. It's not something that costs you much except for the time you put into it. You can write when you wake up, in the middle of class, on a car ride to the store, or even when you're in bed late at night. Words have a powerful way of wrapping you up inside of them and pushing all of your pieces back together. Therapists, teachers, and even friends can't touch you in the way that your own words can. When you write, you create something magical, unique, your own. It is so beautiful to see a person writing, pouring their pain and happiness out on a page or a screen. Too often, we tell our problems to the wrong people or we just hold them in for a little too long. Paper never judges you. It welcomes you with lines wide open.
I never meant to be so cold, and I swear I never meant to hurt you. I wanted to be happy, but I never felt that spark. I got scared. I needed a quick escape because I was never sure what I wanted with you. It scared me to feel so little and so much at the same time. I could only ever give you half of me, and I never gave you a straight up answer. The truth is that I never fell in love with you because I never fell out of love with someone else. I know it's not fair, testing out my heart on you. I knew it was wrong from the start, but I also wondered if somehow you would be able to put back the missing pieces. I wanted you in my life, but it took a little longer to figure out that I didn't want you as my love interest. I tried to work things out. I did, but you never did. You fucking lied to me. Now don't you dare blame me for being this way. You deserve it.
Over the past two weeks, I have begun to realize something important. Before you stop reading this, please just give me a chance to say what I need you to hear: When things break, it's not always the breaking that prevents things from being put back together. I read that in a book. Later on in that book, I also read that sometimes it's not about missing a person. Sometimes it's simply about carrying the whole situation around with you. Some things aren't always meant to be put back together or fixed, but all things are meant to at least have an ending. To talk things through. I know I haven't been much of a friend or anything good at all to you, but I think that we should at least come to an agreement. One that is settled upon by both of us talking instead of just one of us sending messages into what seems like oblivion. If you get this, I am ready to lay these memories to rest. I just need a little confirmation. Can you give me that?
I know I will never say this to your face, but I want to apologize for things now. I had no right to tell you what was wrong with what you were doing, you were miserable, but you thought you were happy. I should have let you keep believing that you were happy. I know you complained. Goodness, you got on my last nerve. I tried everything I could to listen to it. When I complained, no one ever listened to it. I know it sucks. Being so lonely can really drive a person crazy. I am sorry for not understanding. I just want you to see that my life is not perfect. In fact, I cried today. The thing is, I don't really complain that often. It's usually only every now and then when something gets me down. I am happy. I want you to be happy. I just didn't want you stuck in the labyrinth of suffering. I wanted you to find a way out, and I wanted you to realize that you could be happy without chasing the things that will destroy you. I guess what I am trying to say is that I am sorry.
It finally hit the moment that she told you me you had moved on: I don't love you anymore. No, this wasn't some spur of the moment decision. I never really loved you. I knew our fire was short burning, but I thought there was something more. I thought the moment we broke things off, you'd still be around. I realized today that I never wanted you to love me. I only wanted someone to make me feel not so worthless. I began to realize I was the one who made me feel worthless. My love was the thing I had been craving all along. When she said you didn't love me, I started to see the broken love I still had for myself. I saw the cute way my dimples fall so weirdly on my cheeks, and the way freckles scatter across my face in no certain pattern. I learned to love the way I laugh, and I learned to love the way I carried on when things got hard. I loved that I was beautiful, and that was something you could never take away from me. I love me. And I am so glad that losing you made it so easy to see.
The way we said we loved each other, always stayed the same. It meant "I love you dear. You know...as a friend." It was routine. A pattern. Every night. Every morning. I love you dear. Have a great day. We never needed any implications of what our words could mean. They meant you're on my mind. Be happy today. Lines were never crossed with these three little words. They held safety and trust, sprinkled with bits of envy and lust. I love you dear. The meanings soon changed. It started out simple, but it became about something bigger. A kiss on the lips. We aren't just friends anymore. But I have my life, and you have yours. I love you dear. I really do. Please one day, say you love me too.
You can't hide behind the world. It's not big enough to cover all the shame you've spent years of your life running from. No matter how far you run away from here, shame will swallow you up and hold you back. It won't spit you out or let you leave. It will shout back at you with the deafening silence that you sprawled across both of our lives. Ten years from now, your apartment will be nothing but smoke filled memories, leaving holes that can only be fixed with drugs that money can't buy. Hiding behind the world never did you a favor; it made you scared to face the sun.
Everyone knows that love can do some crazy things to people, but sometimes it isn't love that drives us. Too often, we easily confuse control for love. It's like when I thought you grabbed my arm and squeezed harder because you just wanted to be closer to me. I was nearly convinced it was love when you sat on top of my ribs until I surrendered up my phone. And in the moment that you brought tears to my eyes, I smiled because I knew I loved you. After all, it was my fault. I should have known better. Should have been prettier. Should have backed off because you deserved your own life too. I promise you it was love. I'm too afraid to say otherwise.
It never really sunk in how far apart we were when until you got half way across the country. Even now, you're still the boy in sweat pants and Air Jordans that I met last summer. I never really got to choose how things played out. We kind of just happened. A few passing glances, moments of being close enough to feel your breath against mine, and wrestling with our bodies pressed tightly together. From that moment on, we knew what it meant to have passion. We started faster than a forest fire, and we spread like one too. Our fire made it all the way across 300 miles of emptiness between us before we finally burned it out. But even after we put it out, embers find a way to hide underneath the aftermath and wait to spark another fire. We are never really over; we're just waiting for better conditions.